Nothing More (15 page)

Her words burn as I digest them. They pull at the most insecure part of me, the little voice in my head that's worried about what people think of me. I don't want to be the nice guy. I've been the nice guy for twenty years now, even when it's extremely difficult, and I still can't grasp why women want drama over normalcy.

Just because a man doesn't bash the face in of someone for hitting on his girlfriend doesn't mean he doesn't care about her. Just because he doesn't guard her jealously or wince every time she talks to another male of the species doesn't mean he's uninterested or weak. It only means that he has his temper under control, that he's respectful and mature enough to be a functioning member of society. That he understands that everyone needs their own space and every woman needs a chance to develop her own independence.

I will never understand why the nice guys have it so damn bad.

However, if you think about it, the nice guys usually end up being the husbands. The women go through a period of trial and error with the hot bad boys, but eventually most of them want to trade in the motorcycle for a Prius.

That's me.

The human version of a Prius.

Dakota would be a Range Rover, sturdy and luxurious, yet still beautiful.

Nora would be a Tesla, sleek and new and fast. Her curves are smooth and assured . . .

“Until I broke up with you . . . then there was adventure. I was alone to navigate this big city and all the trouble that comes along with it,” Dakota continues.

And what the hell is wrong with me?

I'm here, inches away from Dakota, her hands in mine. Nora shouldn't be on my mind. This is the worst possible time to think about Nora and the way her eyes are impossible not to get lost in, the way her bottom lip pouts out farther than the top.

And then I realize it: thinking about Nora is much less complicated than trying to understand the logic of Dakota's emotions. I don't have a clue what to say to my ex right now. She's telling me that I did too much for her, that in some way I prevented her from doing things for herself, and I'm too afraid of pissing her off to come up with anything decent to say in response. I certainly can't point out that I
didn't
put her in a box. That I was a safe space, but never a jail. That I never curbed her freedom on purpose. That all I ever wanted was to help her in any way possible . . . her and her brother, Carter.

Dakota shifts on the couch and tucks her feet under her, still holding my hands, waiting for my response.

All I can do is speak the truth, with as little anger as possible. “You can't expect me to apologize for being good to you.”

Her hands are still in mine. She pulls one away and again tucks her hair behind her ear before she looks at me.

“I don't expect that.” She sighs and licks her lips, wetting them. “I'm just saying, at the time I needed a break from you, from us.” She moves our joined hands back and forth between us.

At the time?
She's speaking in the past tense, like our breakup is something that we are . . . moving past? Forgetting about?

I look up to catch her eyes. “What are you trying to say? That you don't need a break anymore?”

She pushes her upper teeth over her lower lip as she takes my question in.

The weirdest part of this is that I don't know how I feel. One week ago, if this conversation played out the exact same way as it's playing out now, I would've felt differently. I wouldn't feel so reluctant to go over past history. I would've been excited, grateful, happy. Now it just feels weird. It doesn't quite settle the way that it should.

Dakota hasn't answered me yet, and her words already feel somehow stilted as her eyes scan the room and her chest fills with a breath too deep to hold good news.

“Can I have some more water?” she asks, keeping her response to my question to herself.

I nod and get up, meeting her eyes one more time in hopes for an answer. Half of my brain tells me that I should ask again, that I should make sure she doesn't want to change the status of our relationship. Would we fall back into old routines so easily? How many days would it take before she'd be effortlessly falling back into my arms, forgetting about her need for independence and adventure?

I grab her glass and once in the kitchen open the small drawer next to the fridge where the Tylenol is. If her hiccups and stumbling steps are any indication of how much she's drunk, she won't be feeling so hot in the morning. I open the bottle and dump three into my hand, then fill her glass with more water. In the sink is a cake pan. On the counter next to it, the elaborate tiered cake with purple icing and flowers Nora and Tessa made earlier.

Nora has left traces of herself all over my apartment.

I debate whether it would be worth it to eat a piece before I go back into the living room to deal with Dakota. Or I could cut one for each of us. I doubt that she'd eat it, though, with her strict diet and all. I lift up the corner of the plastic wrap and dip my finger into the icing.

Dakota walks into the kitchen just as I shove my finger between my lips.

Shit.

“Really, Landon?” Her lips lift into a smile and I lean against the counter and face her. She looks at the cake, then back at me. All I can do is shrug and smile.

I grab the glass of water and hold it out to her. She inspects it for a moment, thinking of something to say, I'm sure. Dakota's lips press to the side of the glass and I move back toward the delicious cake.

“You always had a serious sweet tooth.” Her voice is warm and delicious like the icing on my tongue. “It was irresistible.”

“There are a lot of things I never could resist.” I look at Dakota and she looks down at her bare feet.

With my fingers I tear off a small corner of the cake. Little pieces of it break off and a chunk of icing drops onto the countertop. I look at Dakota and try to lighten up the conversation.

“At least now I work out,” I joke.

I was a pudgy kid, always a little thicker in the middle than the other kids. I blame my mom's baking and my own laziness about going outside to play. I remember wanting to stay home, like actually wanting to be inside my house on the weekends, with my mom. I ate a lot of sweets and I wasn't as active as I should have been for my age, and when my doctor talked to my mom about my weight, I was embarrassed, and in that instant I knew that I never wanted to overhear a conversation like that again. I still ate what I wanted to, but I became more active than before. I was a little shy about asking my aunt Reese for help, but once I did, she came over the next day with an exercise bike in her trunk and little weights in her hands. I remember laughing at her eighties-style pink-and-yellow workout outfit complete with matching arm warmers.

Despite how absurd we looked exercising together, she and I got healthy. My mom joined in, too, just for the fun of it, though she had always been in good shape. Reese was always more plump than my mom, but she became a machine and we both lost weight together. My aunt was happy that she could finally fit into some dress that she had been eyeing for a year at some expensive store, and I was just happy not to have the extra weight on my body, making me self-conscious.

I felt great for a while and Dakota began to notice that the chubby boy next door wasn't so chubby anymore. The problem was that my weight loss wasn't good enough for my peers. I lost too much weight and didn't put on any muscle, so that's when the “Lardy Landon” name-calling switched to “Lanky Landon.”

First I was too fat, then too skinny. Nothing I did would please those bullying assholes. And as soon as I stopped trying to, my life became easier.

“What are you thinking about?” Dakota asks; her hand is warm now as she wraps her fingers around my wrist and lowers my arm to my side. Her body presses against mine and she leans her head on my chest. She takes another drink of water and sits the cup down on the counter.

I haven't responded yet, I'm aware of that. I just don't know what to say other than reposing my question about whether she wants to get back together.

Do
I bring it up again, or wait and see which way she takes the conversation?

I take a sip out of my own glass and decide to wait it out. I shouldn't trust myself to keep my mouth from saying something stupid. I've never been the best at knowing what to say or when to say it. I'm not that cool guy who can lean against the counter and be all
I was just thinking about us getting back together and running off into the sunset and living happily ever after, yo.

Ugh, even my self-mocking fantasy is lame.

I don't know how to keep eye contact when I'm nervous about her answer. I simply just suck at being
that
guy.

Surely, this is one of those things that I can blame on my father. I've been patiently waiting for one of these moments when I could cash in my “crappy dad” coupons and blame him for dying too early to be able to teach me how to be a man. But even as the thought passes through my mind, I know it's irrational and not true. My lack of assertiveness wasn't his fault, and still isn't, but I want someone to blame other than myself.

If I'd had a man to talk me through my teenage years, to explain how to talk to women, I would know what to say. It must be his fault that I overthink everything.

“Landon,” Dakota says in a soft breath like she's coming to some sort of resolve. And I'm just standing here, disappointed in myself and stuck in playing the blame game.

“Dakota,” I say back to her, and she turns her cheek. I gently push her hair down, caressing the thick curls with my fingers. I've spent hours, probably days, of my life touching these strands, calming this girl. Her hair has always been one of my favorite things about her. Her fingers grip at the back of my shirt, and I can practically hear the starchy fabric crunch. Never again will I iron my shirts under Tessa's watchful eye. She went a little overboard on the starch spray that day.

Dakota holds me tighter and I dip my head down to kiss the top of her head.

She sighs, melting into my chest, her voice soft as she says, “I made a huge scene.”

I keep one hand on the counter to hold us up and wrap the other around her back.

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing.
Of course
you and Nora aren't dating.”

My arm tenses. Something about the way she says this sits weird with me. Is she assuming that since I'm hugging her in my kitchen, I couldn't be dating Nora, because I just wouldn't do that kind of thing? Or that the idea of nerdy me dating someone like Nora is impossible and ridiculous?

Either way, I remind myself that I shouldn't care. I'm not dating Nora and I'm pretty sure that
she
has absolutely no desire to actually date
me
. She eats guys like me for breakfast. I need to stop thinking about her. I already have.

Dakota lifts her cheek from my chest just long enough to speak.

“I feel like shit,” she says.

“Because you drank too much or because you made a scene?”

“Ugh,” she groans against my chest. “Both?”

I pat my hand against her back. I can tell she's exhausted. Her hands are on my back, at the waist of my jeans. She reaches up, untucking my shirt. Her hands are a little cold against my back. The ache of familiarity as her fingertips move in circles over my skin mixes with the coconut smell of her hair, and suddenly I'm a man obsessed.

I've been here before, immersed in her scent, her touch. I feel her fingers press into the small of my back and I mold myself to her body. I'm ever so accustomed to this. To her. It's only natural that I fall back into this routine. Once she touches me, I see only her.

“Let's go to your room,” she says just as her lips touch mine. She keeps them there, barely skimming mine. “No one is here, right?”

Tessa's gone. Check.

For a second I feel a pang of guilt about Tessa being gone because I left her somewhere. But when Dakota kisses me again, deeper, all guilt disappears in a wave of desire.

At last, we don't have to sneak around like we did when we were kids. I've never been able to actually fuck this love of mine in the privacy of an empty house. All of our encounters have been hushed kisses and subdued moans, rushed hands and sloppy tongues. I've never been able to slowly devour her body in the way I dream of. I want to run my tongue down every inch of her caramel skin and spend extra time where she needs it the most. I want to taste all of her, hear every sound of hers.

Now that I have my own place, I could take her in my bed and do everything I've longed to do since we were teens. I remember how amazed I was the first time she wrapped her lips around my cock. I think back to the many times she wanted to try things. It all felt so experimental then, it felt exciting, otherworldly, and our list of favorite things to do quickly became sexual. That's all we did for a while, all we wanted to do.

Dakota's hands move to the front of my body, circling around my belly button, her fingertips slipping into the top of my briefs. I grow under her touch, hard now, and I can't begin to fight it. It's biology, after all. I haven't been touched, save for that one kiss and a few touches from Nora, in months. Dakota proves that she still remembers my body when she rubs her index finger over the sensitive skin above my hipbone. I jerk away from her tickling, and she laughs, pulling me closer.

She's in a much better mood now, but this feels an awful lot like throwing a blanket over a raging fire. Eventually, it will burn up just the same.

Eventually, but not right now.

D
AKOTA TAKES MY HANDS
and pulls me out of the kitchen. I follow her like the lost puppy I am.

“Don't forget your water,” I remind her, and she pouts at me, but I point to the water on the counter. She really will need it.